Dead Souls Nikolai Gogol (phonics story books TXT) 📖

throwing up everything and making spendthrifts of his sons. Yet this is a nice property, and it is clear that the local peasants are doing well, and that the family, too, is comfortably off. On the other hand, as soon as ever these lads begin their education in restaurants and theatres, the devil will away with every stick of their substance. For my own part, I could desire nothing better than this quiet life in the country.”

“Let me guess what is in your mind,” said Pietukh.

“What, then?” asked Chichikov, rather taken aback.

“You are thinking to yourself: ‘That fool of a Pietukh has asked me to dinner, yet not a bite of dinner do I see.’ But wait a little. It will be ready presently, for it is being cooked as fast as a maiden who has had her hair cut off plaits herself a new set of tresses.”

“Here comes Platon Mikhalitch, father!” exclaimed Aleksasha, who had been peeping out of the window.

“Yes, and on a grey horse,” added his brother.

“Who is Platon Mikhalitch?” inquired Chichikov.

“A neighbour of ours, and an excellent fellow.”

The next moment Platon Mikhalitch himself entered the room, accompanied by a sporting dog named Yarb. He was a tall, handsome man, with extremely red hair. As for his companion, it was of the keen-muzzled species used for shooting.

“Have you dined yet?” asked the host.

“Yes,” replied Platon.

“Indeed! What do you mean by coming here to laugh at us all? Do I ever go to your place after dinner?”

The newcomer smiled. “Well, if it can bring you any comfort,” he said, “let me tell you that I ate nothing at the meal, for I had no appetite.”

“But you should see what I have caught⁠—what sort of a sturgeon fate has brought my way! Yes, and what crucians and carp!”

“Really it tires one to hear you. How come you always to be so cheerful?”

“And how come you always to be so gloomy?” retorted the host.

“How, you ask? Simply because I am so.”

“The truth is you don’t eat enough. Try the plan of making a good dinner. Weariness of everything is a modern invention. Once upon a time one never heard of it.”

“Well, boast away, but have you yourself never been tired of things?”

“Never in my life. I do not so much as know whether I should find time to be tired. In the morning, when one awakes, the cook is waiting, and the dinner has to be ordered. Then one drinks one’s morning tea, and then the bailiff arrives for his orders, and then there is fishing to be done, and then one’s dinner has to be eaten. Next, before one has even had a chance to utter a snore, there enters once again the cook, and one has to order supper; and when she has departed, behold, back she comes with a request for the following day’s dinner! What time does that leave one to be weary of things?”

Throughout this conversation, Chichikov had been taking stock of the newcomer, who astonished him with his good looks, his upright, picturesque figure, his appearance of fresh, unwasted youthfulness, and the boyish purity, innocence, and clarity of his features. Neither passion nor care nor aught of the nature of agitation or anxiety of mind had ventured to touch his unsullied face, or to lay a single wrinkle thereon. Yet the touch of life which those emotions might have imparted was wanting. The face was, as it were, dreaming, even though from time to time an ironical smile disturbed it.

“I, too, cannot understand,” remarked Chichikov, “how a man of your appearance can find things wearisome. Of course, if a man is hard pressed for money, or if he has enemies who are lying in wait for his life (as have certain folk of whom I know), well, then⁠—”

“Believe me when I say,” interrupted the handsome guest, “that, for the sake of a diversion, I should be glad of any sort of an anxiety. Would that some enemy would conceive a grudge against me! But no one does so. Everything remains eternally dull.”

“But perhaps you lack a sufficiency of land or souls?”

“Not at all. I and my brother own ten thousand desiatins45 of land, and over a thousand souls.”

“Curious! I do not understand it. But perhaps the harvest has failed, or you have sickness about, and many of your male peasants have died of it?”

“On the contrary, everything is in splendid order, for my brother is the best of managers.”

“Then to find things wearisome!” exclaimed Chichikov. “It passes my comprehension.” And he shrugged his shoulders.

“Well, we will soon put weariness to flight,” interrupted the host. “Aleksasha, do you run helter-skelter to the kitchen, and there tell the cook to serve the fish pasties. Yes, and where have that gawk of an Emelian and that thief of an Antoshka got to? Why have they not handed round the zakuski?”

At this moment the door opened, and the “gawk” and the “thief” in question made their appearance with napkins and a tray⁠—the latter bearing six decanters of variously-coloured beverages. These they placed upon the table, and then ringed them about with glasses and platefuls of every conceivable kind of appetiser. That done, the servants applied themselves to bringing in various comestibles under covers, through which could be heard the hissing of hot roast viands. In particular did the “gawk” and the “thief” work hard at their tasks. As a matter of fact, their appellations had been given them merely to spur them to greater activity, for, in general, the barin was no lover of abuse, but, rather, a kindhearted man who, like most Russians, could not get on without a sharp word or two. That is to say, he needed them for his tongue as he needed a glass of vodka for his digestion. What else could you expect? It was his nature to care for nothing mild.

To the zakuski succeeded the meal itself, and the host